November

We read the words of the dead
poets, love or grief, pale roses
crushed in their still jars

quick steps, quick vision, the final dark
& all these separate pangs
a simple breath, and ice

the smile tossed back
as daughters run ahead. Death closes
all the books we turn at last.

What final word? The days grow short
& all our woods are bare
my life, though still the quick

birds come
where all the aching summer shone


(yeah, I've written a lot of poems titled "November", possibly for lack of imagination. It's an iconic month.)